


Blithe Spirit

by just_ann_now



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Humor, F/M, M/M, Survivor Guilt, ghost story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 07:34:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1117223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_ann_now/pseuds/just_ann_now
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On his wedding night, Éomer has an unexpected visitor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blithe Spirit

**Author's Note:**

> Written for "Back to Middle Earth Month", 2012

Éomer ducked into his bedchamber, leaving his raucous, drunken companions outside. He leaned against the door, trying to catch his breath. Being a bridegroom was more difficult than he’d anticipated. 

"She was supposed to have been mine," a voice said conversationally.

Éomer whirled around. He was a bit unsteady from all the spirits he had consumed at his wedding celebration, but, as befuddled as he was, he was quite certain that he ought to be alone in the room. "Who's there?" he called out, his voice raspy. 

"It's only me.” His cousin Théodred said, stepping out from the shadows.

Éomer shook his head. He may have had a fair bit, more than a fair bit, to drink, but he was certain he was not so drunk as to be conversing with a dead man.

"Lothíriel. She was going to be mine, you know. We'd been negotiating since she was, what, seven years old? I sent her a pony, and then progressively finer horses as she grew up. She ought to have quite a collection with her. Does she?"

Éomer slumped down heavily onto his bed. His cousin sat down next to him, wrapping his arm around Éomer's shoulder and pulling him close, just as he always used to.

"It's all right," Théodred said. "You go ahead and enjoy her, and the throne, and the King Elessar's friendship, and all the other good things that have come out of this whole damned bloody business. I don't mind at all."

"You don't?" Éomer turned toward him, sputtering. "Are you sure? I've been feeling so guilty; all of this was supposed to be yours, and I - I don't want it, I never wanted it, and now I'm - "

Théodred laughed, the sound surprisingly rich and deep for coming from a dead man. "Don't you go feeling guilty, Éomer. If anyone should, it's me. Shall I tell you why?" Éomer could only nod his head mutely.

"I should feel guilty because I'm so damned relieved. Damned to _be_ relieved, probably; that I didn't have to watch my father die, or fight a hundred thousand orcs at the Pelennor, or face oliphaunts – oliphaunts! I never really did believe that they existed! More fool I. But besides feeling relieved, and guilty about that, there’s one thing I’m glad of. Can you guess what it is?"

Éomer could only stare mutely.

"Boromir is here. We're just going to go off somewhere. _Over the hills and far away_ , as he keeps singing, mad as a loon. He's got a good singing voice. I never knew that before. I don't have to be King, and he doesn't have to be Steward, and we don't have to worry about marriage or heirs or any of that any more. We're going to go riding about, and lie together under the stars, and kill orcs whenever we find them. It'll be a fine life, the one we always really wanted to have." Théodred smiled. "Pity we both had to die before we could have it, but, well, that's how things go sometimes."

"Maybe it's because I'm drunk, and muzzy-headed,” Éomer said slowly, "but it seems to me that getting killed is a drastic way to get out of your responsibilities. Couldn't you and Boromir have just, I don't know, abdicated? Surely Aragorn would have taken your many years of valiant service into consideration, wouldn't - "

"Bah!" Theodred said. "Who would have made up songs about us then? No one sings for quitters. No, cousin; another good thing about being dead is never having to say you're sorry. So I'm not." He whumped Eomer affectionately on the back, nearly knocking the wind out of him. For a dead man, he still had a powerful arm. "Give her a kiss for me; as for the rest of the marital duties - she's really better off with you. Best wishes, cousin!" And with that Theodred walked off through the fireplace.

Éomer sat a few minutes, his head in his hands, until a soft knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. "Yes?" he called out, and Éowyn peeked out around the door.

“Your bride is waiting,” she said sternly. “We’ve sent most of her waiting-women away, to gossip, probably, about how the King of Rohan appears to be lacking in eagerness. It’s a scandal in the making, so I suggest, before it gets out of hand, you get yourself in hand, if that’s what necessary, and get in there to her. You’re not _really_ too drunk, are you? I’ve seen you drink Braneird the Bull under the table. Go tend to your bride.”

“My bride,” Éomer said slowly. “My bride.” He burst into a grin. “She is mine, and I’ll do right by her, and by all of this.” He arose and left the room without a word.

“That you will, brother,” Éowyn said to herself. She glanced around the room quizzically for a moment, shook her head, and left, laughing.


End file.
